


for you we sing this final song

by quodthey



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:12:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodthey/pseuds/quodthey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for you we sing this final song

The body lies still and broken at the bottom of the tower; peaceful and quiet in death as she never was in life. The air is thick and you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe, your heart is beating too fast and you can feel your throat is closing up, and you vaguely know that the horrible sobs are your own. You stare at Dawn, who stares back sightlessly, and move forward. Stop.

If you touch her, feel her cooling skin, and the lack of a heartbeat that should be tattooing a steady staccato rhythm into your fingers -- it will be real.

This is not happening.

 

Life, not matter how short it is, is not a happy story. This is not a fairytale. There is no prince to rescue you should you fall into a slumber. There are no dwarves to care for you.

This is not a happy story. The congealing blood spells _misery_ and the shattered bones scream _failure_ and when you yell her name and get no reply the silence sounds a lot like _you will be alone forever and then you will die_. Everyone fails, in the end.

 

Willow is hugging you. You know this even if you cannot feel it. Even if you cannot feel. Even if there is nothing to feel today, nor tomorrow, nor ever again. Xander is touching your arm, as if he cannot bear to touch nothing, as if you can offer some form of comfort that you cannot offer yourself.

Giles murmurs something about a funeral, and you say nothing.

Anya says something about Glory, and you say nothing.

You say nothing for there is nothing to say.

Dawn is dead. Dawn is dead, and your mother is dead, and your friends do not realise that now you have nothing. You fought to protect them, and if there is nothing to protect, then what do you do?

What do you do?

You do nothing.

 

One of Dawn’s old stuffed bears goes missing. You don’t look for it; you have seen Willow’s tear stained face and Tara’s arms wrapped around her, trying to save her from her pain. You have seen Anya and Xander talking to each other quietly. You have seen how they move around you, as if you are a bomb poised to explode.

Don’t they see what you see? Don’t they see that there is nothing for you to destroy?

 

_How are you, are you okay, how do you feel_ until you want to scream, until you want to hide and never speak to any of them, until you want to leave. There is nothing keeping you here except an obligation that has not been yours since you were sweet sixteen and died.

 

You sometimes wish that you had the courage to say aloud _I wish it had stuck._

Faith wouldn’t have made the same mistakes as you, wouldn’t have let her emotions get in the way -- wouldn’t have been too paralysed by fear to realise that it had to be her, had to be you, not someone so young (too young, too young, too young).

 

Most of your time is spent at the cemetery now. Their deathly silence speaks of understanding. They are the only ones you speak to now.

You get no reply and it sounds like _Peace._ You wish you knew what peace was like. All you have known from you were fifteen is war.

Surely the peacetime must be nearing? Surely there have been enough sacrifices?

You always leave before sunrise. It used to be your favourite part of the day, but you can’t bear to look at it now.

 

Silence unnerves Willow and Xander. Anya speaks to fill it, nonsense that you pay no heed to. Giles has left for England, and you wish you could have had the chance to say a final goodbye.

 

You go to Spike, and say _Please_ but he turns away, and you don’t know how to say _I need this_ , so you leave.

There is a demon among the headstones, large and ugly and vicious. You are weaponless. You have always been weaponless. You don’t move.

It doesn’t hesitate.

 

Your blood is warm, and you can feel your heart slow, slow, slow --


End file.
